


Gran One.

by scaryforest



Series: Gran. [1]
Category: Bon Jovi, Mötley Crüe
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaryforest/pseuds/scaryforest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bon Jovi vs Mötley with a sprinkle of Jon/Nikki.<br/>Guns N Roses cameo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. P.

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this on another site 1.5 years ago.  
> found original doc and gonna paste here  
> was an experiment and a half, written for a niche. what is that niche? who can remember lol  
> (and p. s. insert your usual disclaimer stuff here.)

**Mick's POV.**

Bottles, guitars, people fly. Can't get out, exit's blocked. Gonna eat cake till it blows over. Strawberry and vanilla, end letters of birthday wishes to someone called Stephanie. I don't know who  _that_  is. I came here with Nikki.

Bon Jovi are here too. Two of them. Met Jon before, briefly. And the drummer, Tico, he's wasted:  
“Should we... you know... call security or something?” Jon asks. Last time I saw him, we were in a place much more sophisticated. Tico looks up:  
“There is  _no_  security.”  
Jon looks surprised.

“What  _have_  we got ourselves into?”   
“Don't worry. Happens all the time,” I shrug, “personally, hate it, don't attend these things. But Nikki...”  
“Could have chosen a better place.”  
Is that a hint of amusement I hear...

Nikki never shows,  _Tommy_  does, crawls the floor in a towel, loses it, disappears naked in the crowd. This kind of behavior does not impress me. I suppose what I mean is, I'm mostly only with these people for the  _music_. 

Jon goes upstairs. Tico and I talk about addictions and it's awkward. 

**Nikki's POV.**

Got hope and mellow in my veins, needle in my arm. Stranger says this shit is legit, I trust them 'cause need. Blot out dirt, take a pen, gonna write. I've seen a lot. Not too much. Not enough. I'm missing someone, they don't miss me. The usual.

This party here tonight.

I'm interrupted. I've researched Bon Jovi obsessively, listened to their music and sent a groupie to their gigs. Came back and told me they're average in bed, then started talking 'bout Tommy and how I owed her money for going to fuck these losers. OK, so my plan didn't work. Not that I had one. I  _still_  don't have one.

Wanna ruin their sound, hire someone to murder them, ha, no, not really, anyway.  _Jon's_ here now. and suddenly he's just a guy, no competition at all. Mick; invite 'em to studio, do a collaboration. I don't want that one on the keyboards in my songs, thank you:  
“ _David.”_

I know who he is.  _Goddamn._ Man, I sound messed up. I have nothing against David or any of them, in fact. I'm sure they're cool people. I just don't want anybody to compare us. Don't wanna be associated with them. So I've forgotten why I asked Mick to stall them. 

Jon's in the room circling the couch and I'm on the floor behind it scribbling lyrics on the wall 'cause no paper. He's looking down on me like what the fuck, all superior just 'cause he's stood up and I'm not:  
“Fix your hair,” I spit.

He stops frowning, smiles. Thanks for pointing it out, he's gonna find a mirror. Was an insult, I wasn't trying to  _help_. Also, nothing wrong with his hair, sincerely. He's in the doorway fluffing it up and some idiots take the opportunity to fall inside, Nikki, Nikki.

Seriously, I was fine before and now everyone's stomping out my creative flow. Jon turns around,  _oh_ , he didn't recognize me there, didn't know I'm from Crüe. How?   
I have a distinctive look:  
“Fix your hair,” he tells me, gonna wipe that grin off his face with my fist.

Get up, walk over and on my way change my mind, I just wanna see if he's mocking or not. That distinctive look I mentioned? I stare at my reflection, he's right, I don't really look like myself, make up all smudged like I've been making out with the carpet and some dude clings to me pushing Jon aside, wants to go somewhere. 

Where, who, why, oh. This freak's got his hand down my jeans. And Jon's trying, unable to fawn over himself, God:  
“Come on, give us some space,” he says to the guy 'cause we're blocking the view. 

Jon checks himself out again, uses some spray on the shelf, adjusts his necklaces:  
“Well, see ya.”  
No, don't go. I mean, please,  _do_.


	2. R.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon Jovi vs Mötley with a sprinkle of Jon/Nikki.  
> Guns N Roses cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this on another site 1.5 years ago.  
> found original doc and gonna paste here  
> was an experiment and a half, written for a niche. what is that niche? who can remember lol  
> (and p.s. insert your usual disclaimer stuff here.)

**Nikki's POV.**

Usually these things are full of conversations like: What drink can I get you? Dunno. You here alone? No. Three way? Yes.

And they go off with their shackles and do what they gotta do and you find some fuck still chained to the bed next morning.  
But I've already written songs about power and sex, can't have anything repeat. Thoughts spiraling but then 

Jon's by the jacuzzi, about to get in, Tommy drags two girls in there and they're at it, and I remember Jon's expression well, the: have you no shame? Shame's got nothing on it, all about pleasure, all about fun.

And I've seen some of the girls Bon Jovi pull. Only difference they're more discreet about it. Groupie I sent has evidence. They hang around after shows, drink and talk, then get taken back to hotels. Says Richie Sambora had roses delivered and room service, lotions, scented candles.

We have roses too, I mean, fake flowers and cacti right here. Sets a scene, right? And the pool lights and lube, nothing's ours but still get laid.

Tommy shouts me, someone there who wants a lay. Yeah, but no, I don't know why. Well, I do,  _Jon_ , douche being a hypocrite. Finally notices me, loitering by the bar, two women making out, another mixes my drink, shakes and pours, ice cubes clink. Down it, get me another one, Jon wants one too, wait, what,  _Jon_? Thorn in my side lately, again anger. Punch him, slap him, anything. 

But Vince catches my attention, sticking someone behind the counter, distracting me and Jon takes a chair and pulls it closer to me, like he belongs:

“Hi!” 

“No offence but...” I begin, then Sambora appears. Great, now they're both exchanging looks and cracking private jokes and Sambora's all up in my face:

“Not stoppin' long,” orgies everywhere, bother you, eh? Wanna take someone out, dine, get to know them, eh?  
Not their kind of scene, says Richie, yeah, bet you it's not, Richie snorts:  
“So, Mick says you got a proposition for us.”

“ _Do_  I?”  
“I dunno,  _do_  you?”  
I think I do. Richie's attitude, beginning to get on my nerves. Jon's laughing, I slam my empty glass down, shatters, Jon's like:  
“Woah.” 

Push shards off the table, grit my teeth. Hell yeah, I have a proposition:  
“Take it  _outside_?”   
“Sure,” says Jon. Apparently, fresh air'll do me good. Ooh, smartass.

I grab a bottle and walk outside, they follow me. Jon sips his Jack and coke like a girl, taken him ten minutes to finish it, I'm out to prove some point, take large swigs, offer him a refill:  
“Umm... No, thanks.”  
“Pussy,” not the best insult, not the desired reaction either- haha, like nothing phases him. 

Ah, Richie, he's another story, he's all tense and, “Hey now,” and ready for a fight. Good. Bring it on. He retreats. Pacifist, hmm? I said, bring it,  _bitch_. Smack and

I go down:  
“ _Shit_.”  
Yeah.  _Shit_  fits the situation nicely.  
“Quick, turn him over,  _shit_.”  
I'm choking on my own vomit. Water on my face, in my mouth, I grab for my alcohol, stings. Bust lip. Fucked off my face  _again_. 

Memories come back in bits, blurry image of Richie sitting on the fence 'bout ten feet away, blank. Come 'round and he's still there, gets up. Hear Mick's voice somewhere far away. Scraping sound, I think Jon's behind me, the three of them move about. 

Next thing, it's morning and I'm at Mick's. I recognize the ceiling when I open my eyes, see. The sun, head spins:  
“They fucked off back to Jersey.”   
“ _Who_?”  
Oh. Well, what do I care?

TBC.


	3. E.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon Jovi vs Mötley with a sprinkle of Jon/Nikki.  
> Guns N Roses cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this on another site 1.5 years ago.  
> found original doc and gonna paste here  
> was an experiment and a half, written for a niche. what is that niche? who can remember lol  
> (and p.s. insert your usual disclaimer stuff here.)

**Neutral POV.**

Mick; he's wearing dark, the rest wear a smile and sunshine, the rest are Richie, Jon, Alec, contrast is _drastic_. Reasons for this meeting are unclear, they talk unofficial and in shadows, tip and leave the bar. Press are on way but they make it just in time. Out of the public eye, they discuss composing a song for charity, they drink a lot of mineral water, on Mick's departure, subject turns to Nikki:  
“Like seriously. No hard feelings.”  
“Hey, tell him we didn't mean anything by it.”  
“Tell him yourself,” says Mick. 

And three weeks pass until Jon gets Nikki's number and calls him, Nikki sighs:  
"Didn't like my crowd?"  
"Nah. Let  _me_  choose a crowd."

And he does. Venue he goes to band spotting. There's Martini and olives and toothpicks everyone rolls their eyes at. David Bowie makes an appearance on the TV, speaks about relevant stuff and they lean against shiny surfaces drunkenly. And struggling to describe this shithole.

**Nikki's POV.**

Off topic, saying sorry's a big step. And I value that. Confidence of apology. 

Jon informs me he likes it here, Jesus Christ, like someone's died, so quiet, you breathe and they hear you and shush you, like a library. Man, I remember when, no, wait, I don't remember anything, but you can imagine sneezing in a place like that and being thrown out. 

I don't tell him but I'm feelin' all chilled out. Maybe I  _should_ , it's a good thing, right? Yeah, I'm gonna tell him, but maybe not 'cause he leans in:  
“Be right back,” looks around, checking for God knows what, then gets up and someone's great grandmother’s rags round his neck get caught and he stumbles. Makes me laugh, not so perfect now, is he. Well, never was, mismatched as fuck, lacks color coordination.   
Anyway, he's off and I'm trying to piece together how we even got here.   
Blank.   
No fucker notices and we leave.   
Out of it. Breaking point:

“Come on,” and seems Jon doesn't want to but he follows me inside and when I sit, he sits too, and I write, he writes too, fuck this wallpaper. Purpose of it, release some creativity, see his incoherent thought, be spontaneous, so he don't stand there all smug like he knows  _everything_. Says:  
“Ain't this random,” and I tell him he's not seen nothing yet, wait till he tries this drug... no, doesn't wanna. 

But look at me go. Ooh, Jon stops mid sentence and it reads, something: “I am passionate,” guess we have something in common, I think the size of my letters is increasing, 'passion, passion, Jon, passion,' dizziness, sense him move again, 'passion, passion, passion', snap and I'm falling backwards. But wait, where's the floor, crash against him, he's got an arm around me, I hear him talk; heroin:  
“Not the answer,” yeah, maybe not for him. Well, I'll be damned, ink cartridge broke. Black all over my hands, smear it on him: 

“What's the answer then?”  
“I don't know. But that's definitely not it,” he loosens his grip, “love, maybe.”  
“How cliché,” I snort, he laughs.  
“Call it whatever you want. Something that gives you hope.”  
“This gives me hope,” I say. He pulls us up and lets go and I scan over the words and wow, it hits me so sudden, he's given me exactly what I need;  _inspiration_ :

“Thank you,” accept it, Jon, accept the freaking hug and he does, returns it, reluctantly, falters:  
“Any time?”   
Ha ha, doesn't get me, voice gives it away but I don't care and noone will know that I've just kissed him. 

And so it has changed.  
For a while I find his presence makes me very happy. But he comes and goes and I never stay long either 'cause we've got our own separate projects. And they play live and so do we, just as before. I'm not mad anymore, let me tell you about what woke my muse, he wrote: 

**“I want to be your natural high.”**

When he's gone it's hard, I'm always using. When he's near I try to sober up, there's potential in me, him, what he has to offer. A lot of laughter and not the kind of laughter you fake.


	4. Q.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon Jovi vs Mötley with a sprinkle of Jon/Nikki.  
> Guns N Roses cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this on another site 1.5 years ago.  
> found original doc and gonna paste here  
> was an experiment and a half, written for a niche. what is that niche? who can remember lol  
> (and p.s. insert your usual disclaimer stuff here.)

**Nikki's POV.**

So when I think Jon, I think humor and I think that kiss and his passiveness, aftertaste of wine:   
“You hooked?”   
“Huh?”  
I mean his poison of choice but he's uneasy, flushed. I suppose 'you hooked' could be misinterpreted. Sure hope he's hooked. On me. 'Cause doesn't matter who it is, someone bein' hooked on you massages ego, right? 

One night, an old face turns up at our table at a club of little relevance, telling me I'm noone. Money and fame won't make me someone. And I pretend her opinion doesn't matter till she leaves and put up a front 'cause we're out and got a reputation to uphold. And Sambora's around somewhere too-  _God_ , that man:

“Hell no,” Jon says I am someone, he reassures me in a whisper, so we're not heard. His opinion shouldn't matter as much as it does. We push through the crowd, to a more secluded place, nearly lose him on the way to nowhere significant. Dim lit corridor, notice a small draft and Jon's saying something but it's drowned out by a band starting their performance at eight o' clock precisely. 

The guitarist is slightly off tune and gets booed by music critics. Others cheer 'cause they're drunk and sound of bass is heavenly live.  _I_  should know. 

Jon and I shuffle around, move closer, attempting to have a conversation about what makes people... what makes me successful but can hardly make out what he's saying. Conclude this is pointless and I keep nodding like I'm hearing him simply because. 

His breath on my neck is hot, good and he's wearing this long coat, pull him by the straps, scarf, even yank on his hair to get his attention, he twists his head round, discomfort showing in a snarl; kinky. Push at his collar. Then

 _Sambora!_ Poking his nose in, standing near the stairs, eyeing us up. I block Jon's view, make sure he doesn't see the fucker but doesn't seem like he'll interrupt. When I'm done, skin's bruised, purple, Jon buttons up.

Sambora has a way of popping up every time you don't want him to, think he has a girlfriend, who knows, but it's like he's Jon's Siamese. His shadow. Seems innocent enough?

Anyway. It's a Friday, maybe Saturday. About 9pm and sun still dangles in the sky, resembles an orange mistletoe, I know because I once saw one just like it in my dream but the dream is not important. Tommy and Vince wait for us and

Jon and I arrive last cause he wanted to film the fucking dawn or dusk or whatever and they've trashed the hot dog stand. Frozen meat of 9% scattered everywhere. 

We were sober before, yeah. Bottle of some unidentified rice wine. Wait. Scratch that. I crave sushi now. Hey, let's go have some. Screw you, Vince says:  
“Too expensive, let's make our own, catch a fish,” and there's some sea weed on an empty beer can over there.  
“No, wait, it's a sock.”   
“Sea shell,” Jon corrects.  
“Wanna record evolution of sea life?” I ask.  
“Hmm?”  
“Leave your lousy camera here, come back in a year for footage.”

 _Tommy_ : Let's glue this dumbass down so he doesn't move away.  
 _Vince_ : Dead.  
 _Tommy_ : Huh?  
 _Vince_ : It's not alive. Won't crawl nowhere.  
 _Tommy:_ So? Glue it anyway.  
 _Jon_ : Come now. I can't leave my shit here. 

Oh right, West coast not good enough for you? Go back to New York or wherever. Later, just me and Jon:

 _Jon_ : I'm tripping.  
 _Nikki_ : No, you're not.  
 _Jon_ : Yeah. I am. 

Noone who's tripping says they're tripping even though they do. Thought he wasn't into _drugs_ , eh.

 _Nikki_ : Thought you were getting depressed there for a moment.  
 _Jon_ : Oh no. I'm worse off than that.   
 _Nikki_ : Let's go get that sushi?  
 _Jon_ : But the store is shut.  
 _Nikki_ : Screw it. Rob it.

Been standing here a while, well. Jon's sitting. Now I can look down on him like he looked at me.

 _Nikki_ : Ha. In your fucking face.  
 _Jon_ : Right back at you.   
 _Nikki_ : No clue what's going on. 

Till I notice him shaking his leg.

 _Nikki_ : Tryin' to get rid of a boner there? It's cool, man. Only over some sushi.   
 _Jon_ : No. I don't want sushi. No. I want David.  
 _Nikki_ : Who?   
 _Jon_ : David. You know.

Reminds me of the conversation I had with Mick. Fucking David. 

 _Nikki_ : What's David got going that I don't?  
 _Jon_ : He's my home.  
 _Nikki_ : Home?  
 _Jon_ : Homie. Do you remember Al?   
 _Nikki_ : Who?   
 _Jon_ : Alec.   
 _Nikki_ : Let's move along already. 

And we go, forget the sushi, keep stumbling.

 _Jon_ : Do you believe my lies?  
 _Nikki_ : What lies?

Shit. Broken dialogues. Retrospect, I wish I remembered more. 

 _Nikki_ : Stop talking to me like I'm one of your fuck buddies. What ya trying to pull?  
 _Jon_ : My hair.   
 _Nikki_ : Fix it.  
 _Jon_ : Fuck buddies. Sounds so bad.


	5. U.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon Jovi vs Mötley with a sprinkle of Jon/Nikki.  
> Guns N Roses cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this on another site 1.5 years ago.  
> found original doc and gonna paste here  
> was an experiment and a half, written for a niche. what is that niche? who can remember lol  
> (and p.s. insert your usual disclaimer stuff here.)

**Nikki's POV.**

I stay with Jon and he babbles about Al, Al, Al and David, moves onto Sambora.

 _Jon:_  I love Richie. He keeps my head above... the...  
 _Nikki_ : I don't care about  _Richie_.  
 _Jon_ : I do. Care 'bout you too, my friend.  
 _Nikki_ : I'm not your  _friend_.

Mutters about Richie again.

 _Nikki_ : Cut your boyfriend's hair.   
 _Jon_ : Nah.  
 _Nikki_ : Fix his hair. Cut. Wash.  
 _Jon_ : Don't need to.  
 _Nikki_ : Yea. You do.   
 _Jon_ : Nah.  
 _Nikki_ : Yea.  
 _Jon_ : Nah.

Rolling on the floor, he he ha ha, ouch. Enough already, I say:   
“Come here.”  
“Nah.”

Shut his mouth with mine, easy. Unresponsive, but I hold, hold, hold, release:  
“Nah?”  
“Yea.”  
Have him yield, through half closed eye lids, wordless. Got him scratching masculine, fingers closing, choking slightly, he mumbles against me:  
“Definitely yea.”

I'm met by average, someone who has little rhythm, playfulness. Spread, angle him, fuck, rough idea of utopia:  
“Yea.”

**Neutral POV.**

Some weeks after

Richie lives out of his suitcase, goes through his pieces of cloth, arranges his outfit, denim. Red. Thinks red looks good on him. Tidy. Yeah, tuck that shirt in, unbutton it, show 'em what you got, whiff of aftershave, let's roll.   
Free fall down the stairs, marble. Four star hotel. Fifth star's himself. Like, of course he's a star, band he's in is huge.  
Entrance is guarded by someone whose hair is done in braids, mean looking guy, gold tooth glittering, tips his hat.  
Richie gets up, dusts himself off:  
“You alright there, mister?” calls the receptionist. Richie wastes little time bailing, embarrassing. 

**Nikki's POV.**

_Nikki_ : I'd love it if you gave me a precise time, you know. You say you care but you're never freaking here and cancel and reschedule like I'm one of your business meetings.  
 _Jon_ : I'm sorry.   
 _Nikki_ : Yeah. And when you're here, you go and meet everyone else before you see me like I'm your last option.  
 _Jon_ : Appearances...  
 _Nikki_ : Screw appearances. Priorities, Jon. Friends come first.   
Jon: You said I wasn't your friend. 

Well, fuck. I did say that. No, I'm not gonna explain why I said it, he knows damn well why and now he's twisting it. Just 'cause he's made a big mistake or maybe he hasn't, maybe he's just a user. Yeah, I go studio all the time and I'm busy too, and everyone wants a piece like I'm an item, not a person. 

 _Jon_ : I said I'm sorry.  
 _Nikki_ : Yeah, ok.   
 _Jon_ : Truce?   
 _Nikki_ : Yeah.

No.   
Yeah.  
Till next time. 

Remember that day. Getting a tattoo done and a lot of commotion outside, girls pressing up against the window, stumbling around towards the door. In they come, flashing and I'm done and about to leave the parlor when a couple of them wail and point, run through traffic. Oh yeah,  _Sambora_. Gonna stalk.

**Neutral POV.**

Richie takes baby steps and on some corner he stops at the lights, removing his jacket. Checks the street sign, go figure, not even relevant, temperature is. Highs of 80.6. Lows; a point or two less. Breaking a sweat. Crosses over, sun melts people's ice creams and they pass him in roofless cars. Enough heat imagery. Meaning, he's not used to it, feels a bit faint. Someone coughs; Nikki:   
“What d'ya want?” inquires Richie, defensively and yeah. Nikki speaks. Punchline that is missed under the sound of a truck passing them, Richie frowns. Pardon? 

Pardon now, really. Nikki gestures they should go sit in the shade, cold beer, maybe, yeah? Pussy beer, weak and like it's been watered down but it's cold, does what needs doing. Richie seems refreshed, feels around in his pockets. Society enforces these lame this-is-what-we-do antics on everybody:  
“Oh no,” says Nikki “don't, drinks on me.”  
“Yeah, didn't wanna pay anyway.”  
“Where you headed?”  
“What's it to you?” Richie's looking all suspicious.  
“Just you look a bit fucked.. Could walk you there.”

Richie's squinting like there's a hidden motive. And perhaps there is.

Nameless place, empty. But Vince is wearing a blue cap there, his low v neck, bling bling jewelry. You know, you've seen him, pictures, videos, that kind of thing. Maybe you've seen him in flesh too. So he's lingering, Nikki asked him to be there and at this particular time. 'Cause he's got a proposition. Sure has a lot of them. Vince hears footsteps, closing in from behind:  
“So what is it? Haven't got all night. Bet _you_  do though. Chasing after...”

Pardon? Sambora. Stops mid step. Fuck, thinks Vince, was gonna insult Jonny. Turn that frown upside down, smile. Force a laugh, how's things. Good? Good, good. What ya doing round here? Shady neighborhood, Richie shrugs:  
“Passing through. You?”  
“Same, same.”  
“Well...”   
“Listen, man...” ok then,  _don't_  listen.  _Do_  walk away. Swag. Yeah, do turn around, come back. Snap. Flash. Pose. And again, journalist flaunting a Nikon, Richie puts an arm around Vince and:  
“Ah. Hey, Vince.”  
“Jon.”  
Cheese. Fucking hell. 

They leave, Vince stays. Mhm, 'cause better being stood up than going off with a duo of... Nikki arrives an hour late, lacks an ounce of soberness:  
“I have news!”  
“Yeah?”  
“Like totally cool news.”  
“So fuckin' tell me already.”  
“Oh wait. Nevermind. Where's Tommy?”

Tommy's on his bike, stopping. Santa Monica. Pretty lady, baby, what do you do, I play drums. So does half of L.A. Ouch, below the belt. Whatever, I've got girls at home. And he does but they're all craving foreplay, tonight Tommy's in want of a quick release. 

Meanwhile, cafe nearby, table on the walk, Mick's there with his woman; Nina, sipping peppermint tea. Well, it's his order but the connections he has, that's highly doubtful. Police patrol. Police have news, drug heist, robbery, David Bryan looks up from his newspaper:  
“What a dump.”  
“Hmm...” goes Tico.  
“Supposed to be all glamor.”  
“Hmm...”  
“You even listening?” David sounds irritated.   
“Yeah. Can't wait to get out of here.”  
“Could have done yesterday.”  
“I know.”

But Jon's got plans today and they all stick around for. After they leave Vince looking all lost in his own city, Richie and Jon stroll down to a bar for a Mojito or two. Richie checks to see that he's been robbed, missing fifty bucks, Jon's first question:  
“When?” and second, “how?”  
“How the fuck should I know?”  
You shouldn't.


	6. E.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon Jovi vs Mötley with a sprinkle of Jon/Nikki.  
> Guns N Roses cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this on another site 1.5 years ago.  
> found original doc and gonna paste here  
> was an experiment and a half, written for a niche. what is that niche? who can remember lol  
> (and p.s. insert your usual disclaimer stuff here.)

**Neutral POV.**

And just as they're figuring Richie's fucked, their waitress removes an ash tray and tiptoes to the following table where Tommy sits down and sighs like something major's gone down, but what? Jon shushes Richie, doesn't wanna be noticed but Richie's set of keys drops to the floor, sound draws Tommy's attention. Crap:  
“Hi!”  
“Hi?”  
“Hi.”  
Oh Jesus, uncomfortable.  
“Join us?” mental pat on the back for Jon faking genuine, Richie looks displeased.  
“Nah, waiting on someone.”  
“Oh, right.”  
“Ah, fuck it, still got some time to kill,” Tommy pulls a chair up. Double crap. The three of them down shots, Jon does most of the talking, guitars and amps, but Richie's still thinking bout his lost money, Tommy frowns:  
“What's with the face?”  
Nervous silence.

“Chicks givin' you trouble?” yeah, Tommy, go ahead and assume.  
“Somethin' like that.”  
“But I hear ya a real ladies man,” Tommy grins, “sup?”  
“ _Sup_ yourself.”  
Tommy says: “Sorry, guys,” and goes to make a call. 

Need more drinks to loosen up. Or no more 'cause noone wants to spill their embarrassment. Like Tommy leaving the strip with a transvestite, picking 'em up:  
“Princess, you lookin' lonesome.”  
“And you've come to rescue me,” that's the one in drag, passing for a woman easily, gloss and sparkle, shiny black hair, padded bra, long, thin legs.  
“I'm Tommy. You, baby?”  
Baby it is. And knows who he is. Say, got a place nearby. And they leaving, Baby on his arm, whispering kink, barely making it, lust driven sloppy kisses, later on the phone:

“Hey, Sixx, you functional?” incoherent background noise, “guess not, but listen up, man. Need to talk to someone, Mick's not in.”  
“Ugh.”  
“You willing to listen? Yeah? No? Well, I'm screwed either way,” Tommy hears shuffling and groaning on the other end.  
“Any idea what time it is?”  
“Fucking fuck, does it matter, I'm in deep shit here,” Tommy snaps.  
“Yeah, I hear you, aren't we all.”

So they talk on and on about the mess they're in and not get anywhere. And seems Tommy has a lot of coins to waste:  
“Dude, I pulled a dude,” comes out funny, Tommy cringes at his own, “took him back and he's like a bitch on heat but I swear, man, I didn't know, I didn't know he was a dude!”  
“Not even when you fucked him?”  
Didn't fuck him but

Sucking, biting, flipping over. Want oral? Yeah, do it. Who's a big boy? Skilled tongue, saliva, Wanna ride that. Ride it, woah:  
“See something you dislike, soldier?”  
“Fucking a.”

Fucking. Fucking. Everything's fucking. Everyone's fucking. And Tommy hopes Baby doesn't tell, Baby calls him a homophobic... Nevermind:  
“I have nothing against gay people.”  
And he doesn't. But whatever.

So Jon's plans fall apart 'cause they're delayed by Tommy at this drinking parlor. 

And Nikki's outside the building him and Jon are supposed to meet at, high as kite, low, lower, connects with pavement, ah, sweet nothing, black out.  
All of a sudden he's in his bed and Tommy rings and as they talk, respectively, Jon and Richie are gallivanting to find a pillow to rest their weary heads, feathered stuffing:  
“What you thinkin', Jonny?”  
“Thinking I'm a bad friend.”

And in a king size bed a sleepy Richie draws the cover up to his neck reassuring Jon he's a good friend. Always there, always supportive. Jon sits cross legged facing away, got the blues:  
“I know you're tired, go to sleep,” says he but Richie moves up behind him, nudges him. Talk to me. Is Art important? Sure is. Is Art a priority? Richie clicks his tongue:  
“Yeah.”  
“Ever meet somebody who disagreed?” asks Jon, Richie shakes his head, no. 

Put everything into us, the music, _my_ band. Richie remains quiet, fidgets. Rich, you're my closest friend. Richie smiles, dark though, can't see:  
“We're a team!”  
“Help me make sense.”

Sense turns out to be Jon seeing someone likeable in Nikki, doesn't ditch his friends to sign a record deal. Instead, takes the friends along. Yeah, that word 'friend':  
“Nikki is... I don't know how to phrase this.”  
Don't need to. Richie's got eyes, noticed that change, saw indifference dry up, mutters a:  
“Talk to him.”

A week later. Takes time but they do talk and more, Jon's wild eyed, crazed, Nikki spins him off. 

Vince licks salt off top of his palm, lemon, rush, takes champagne out of an ice bucket, brings it to Richie:  
“Knock yourself out.”  
And Richie knocks himself out. This house is dirty. Jonny, where you at. Jonny's upstairs but there are a lot of keys, many rooms, clusters of people, merging and blending. They seduce the famous, conquer. Damn fails to be given for testosterone. 

Someone's head is rested on Richie's shoulder, arms wound around his waist shivering, she's whispering desperate, "Get off," he says and she does, tangles into a threesome Richie's not a part of. More strangers join ones already on floor in front of him, Richie whines, then:

"Sambora!" Tommy pulls him up. Plunder down the hall, cat enters through the flap, they exit.


	7. L.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon Jovi vs Mötley with a sprinkle of Jon/Nikki.  
> Guns N Roses cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this on another site 1.5 years ago.  
> found original doc and gonna paste here  
> was an experiment and a half, written for a niche. what is that niche? who can remember lol  
> (and p.s. insert your usual disclaimer stuff here.)

**Neutral POV.**

_Richie_ : Don't touch me.  
 _Tommy_ : Not touching. Taking you home.  
 _Richie_ : Don't.

Home is many states away. Mind states. Real states. Estates. David flosses and uses mouth wash before picking up.

 _David_ : Jon?  
 _Richie_ : Yeah. But no.  
 _David_ : Richie.  
 _Richie_ : Yeah. I lost Jon. Lost my way.

It's made clear Tommy is involved and this does not sit well with David. Duff of Guns N Roses is clad in white tonight, with him, he has Axl Rose, Tommy leaves Richie with them and goes to insert someone's stolen tips in the condom machine.

Richie spits gin and a name down the receiver but David hasn't got the faintest idea where that is, he studies his maps.

 _Richie_ : Who are you people?  
 _Axl_ : He for real?  
 _Duff_ : Think so.  
 _Richie_ : In my free time I like lining up my pencils.  
 _Duff_ : How high are you?  
 _Richie_ : Imagine being someone's personality.  
 _Duff_ : Yes. My own.  
 _Axl_ : Shut him up already.

Tico joins David and they go to search for Richie. Van Nuys, Mick and Nina are on their own, clever, use Nikki's empty house. Change of scene. Dark, lush, hours roll by blasting edgy beats to sex. Suddenly:

 _Nina_ : This. What we have. It's too heavy.  
 _Mick_ : Ok.

They part. Nikki brings Jon back to messed up sheets, unfinished beer, spilt dark red and vinyl being scraped, song over looping. Finish what we started, yeah? Yeah.

 _Nikki_ : You know I'm still mad at you, yeah?  
 _Jon_ : Yeah.  
 _Nikki_ : But for once you put me first. Like... everything.

Left Richie behind, didn't tell him where you went, yeah? Yeah. Unknown to either of them Richie and Duff are getting on swell, everything considered:

 _Richie_ : Hey, hey?  
 _Duff_ : Hey?  
 _Richie_ : Who are you again?

It's fine. Most junkies forget his name. What? Doesn't bother Duff, no. But Richie's not an addict. Oh? Listen, where's Lee anyway. Who? Lee. Tommy Lee. Off talking to himself. Prank him, prank Sambora. No? Why not? He's... nice. _Nice_? Yeah, you know, _nice_. Darn condoms didn't drop, saw he had some. Let's go get.

Tommy walks back to the lounge. No, too pretty to steal from. Did I hear myself right? Now, if he was a woman... Out of here, bye. Parallel to this, Jon:

“Bye.”  
Doesn't get a verbal back. Gets a shove instead, trips on the steps, falls into a plant, turns around to see the building dark and silent like Nikki's not even there.

Sides ache, from losing a fight. Sides ached before too but was a pleasant ache, sexy and one riding a high wave. Nik, mmm, you're good. Jon took it all, bounced, spiralled. Murmurs of what he took to be his name, drowsy, radiating warmth. Wake up. Huh? Fell asleep on me. Fuck off.

Fuck off, fuck off, get off, ok? Nikki helped Jon take a tumble out his bed. Other side of town they help Richie take a tumble out of Axl's seat:

“Don't you have a home to go to?”

 _Richie_ : No.  
 _Axl_ : Duff?  
 _Duff_ : Hmm?  
 _Axl_ : Get rid of him?  
 _Duff_ : Don't wanna.

Aw, shit. Bryan's here.

 _David_ : Come on, let's go, where's Jon?  
 _Duff_ : Wait, wait, man, R... Rich, here's my number.  
 _Axl_ : That's Izzy's.  
 _Duff_ : Yeah.

Things were ok. Now they are not. Later, Axl's got a look of someone deep in thought, like he suspects Duff and Izzy or is trying to, lack of proof forces him to let go. Also later, David, Tico and Richie find Jon on the curb, moody and distant:

“How's it going down there, bro?”  
“Bleak,” Jon attempts to get up. Don't bother. Miserable up here too. They all sit on the sidewalk:  
“Where's Alec?”  
“Tripping on acid, probably, yeah. Seeing stars,” says David.  
“Ooh, stars.” Richie needs to see them too. Well, look up. Richie's: Oh yeah! Haha! A _lot_ of them. And:  
“Notice, some shine brighter than others.”  
“Just like real life then,” sighs Tico.

Monologue, Nikki's. Aimed at Mick: You still hooked on the charity thing? You know? With Bon Jovi? Well, cancel all your plans. 'Cause I said so, you know.  
But the cause...  
Forget the cause, not gonna work, don't get involved with them again, you hear? Ok?

Vince: Stop ordering us about.  
 _Nikki_ : Wasn't talking to _you_.  
 _Vince_ : But _I_ was talking to _you_.  
 _Nikki_ : Well, I'm not talking back.  
Tommy _splutters_.  
 _Mick_ : Alright. Alright. I'll tell them no.

Next day:

 _Mick_ : Yeah, sorry 'bout this. I really thought this was going somewhere but...  
 _Jon_ : Nikki.  
 _Mick_ : Always.

True though. _Always_. Jon hangs up and lets Richie in:  
“What you thinkin', Jonny?”  
“Thinking I'm a bad friend.”

Deja vu. To Nikki? No, that ship sailed. And will tell you 'bout that another time:  
"Still. Such a bad friend."  
“In general?” asks Richie.  
“No. To _you_.”


End file.
